President's Letter

Seven hundred words. As I began to write this article on my mental illness, I wondered how I could describe something that has so drastically impacted my life in so few words, but here goes.

I noticed something was different about me when I was a teenager in the late 70s. Multiple times a year, I became so agitated that I would break down, always in front of my mom, crying and screaming for hours, and telling her I just couldn't handle life anymore. My mom was fantastic - she let me vent and cry and she listened. When I finally calmed down, we talked. I asked her how she knew what to do, and she told me my dad had the same "issues."

I wasn't sure what she meant at the time - that I was like my dad - as the only times I had seen my dad like this were when he was very drunk. He worked at a local sale barn each Saturday to earn extra money and would go out to drink afterwards with friends. I tried to be in bed before he came home, but sometimes he came home early. Even if I had gone to bed, I could hear the yelling and crying. I thought his manner was solely because of the drinking - I didn't realize until years later that he suffered from untreated depression and anxiety, which came out most when he drank, because he was raised to always be in control of emotions.

In 1981, I got married, and the episodes stopped for a couple years. However, as I got more comfortable with Dave and had a baby, the episodes returned. I suffered from post-partum depression to the point where my parents came and stayed with us a couple nights a week because I couldn't handle life at all, let alone a new baby. After the post-partum depression lifted, I felt a little better, but I couldn't make myself get out of bed, and I laid on the couch much of the time when I did get up. Finally, we made a doctor's appointment and discovered I have clinical depression. The medication made me feel like a zombie, but at least I could get out of bed most of the time and work at our small business and on our farm. After a couple years on the meds, the frantic episodes started again, like they had during high school. I was overwhelmed and about once a month, I would have a breakdown, and Dave would have to calm me down and help me through it.

In 1987 we decided I needed counseling as well as medication. This was during the farm crisis, and we couldn't afford therapy. Thankfully, our church (Lutheran Church Missouri Synod), had a professional counseling program with fees charged based on income. Dave called to make an appointment, because I was unable to do that for myself. There were no openings, and they told us to call back in a few months. Dave called the clinic every two to three months for years until I was able to get in. I firmly believe that this therapy, which I received only due to Dave's love and persistence, was lifesaving. During this time, I also suffered a miscarriage and was suicidal for several months. Through therapy, I learned a lot about depression and suicide, and talked about things I had never told anyone. Only Dave and my mom knew I was in therapy, and my mom told us we should not tell my dad, as he would not "understand."

After almost three years of therapy, my counselor thought I could handle things on my own. I was scared to death, but I kept my life mostly on track for several years, with only occasional episodes. I lost 150 pounds, exercised daily, made our small business a success, and eventually decided I could handle going back to college. I finished my four- year degree and graduated from college the same day our son, Jonathan, graduated from high school.

In the fall of 2002, Jonathan left for college, and I left for law school. With the pressures of law school and living alone in Des Moines while Dave worked to support us, my mental illness rapidly increased. As 700 words isn't enough to tell my story, you will have to wait until next month's issue for the "rest of the story."

Kathy Law Nyemaster Goode, P.C. [email protected] 515-283-3116